The attendant at the Westin’s front desk handed Kassie a gray envelope containing a keycard and a note written in red, apparently the color du jour.
My desire to be part of you is surpassed only by my longing to be with you for eternity.
Oh, my! Chris was the romantic Mike never was. Chris had a way with words, but then again he was a professional scribe.
As the elevator doors opened to the dimly lit eighth floor, Kassie detected a tingling between her legs. The mere thought of Chris did that to her every time. She spotted his room down the hall, the one with the Do Not Disturb sign even though it was the middle of the day. Figuring he’d be asleep, Kassie snuck in, slowly clicking the door shut.
Sure enough. A sliver of sunlight peeked through the heavy full-length lined drapes, directing her eyes to Chris who was covered in a bright white sheet facing away from the door. She stepped out of her shoes, stripped down to her bra and thong, and without a word slipped in alongside him.
Hoping not to jar him, Kassie kissed his back and stroked his smooth naked bottom. Chris responded with a low moan, but didn’t rouse.
She nestled her nose between his muscular shoulders and his signature fragrance of tart green apples quieted her mind, but not enough to nod off. At times like these when it was hard to fall asleep, she’d relive how she and Chris became she and Chris.
It was late May five years ago in Venice and the evenings had just begun to hold the warmth of the day. She sat alone at a café in St. Mark’s Square, reflecting on her journey there.
“Let’s go to Italy again,” Kassie had suggested to Mike. “It’ll be like a second honeymoon.”
“Let’s not go there.”
And that was that. He refused to talk about Italy or how their marriage could benefit. He probably thought she’d forget about all of it.
“You have to live your life with or without Mike,” her therapist said. “It’s your choice.”
When she persisted and told him she was going without him, he didn’t try to stop her. He showed no interest in her itinerary, didn’t offer to take her to the airport, or even say bon voyage.
The white lights strung around St. Mark’s Square twinkled like stars in the sky as tourists, conversing in unrecognizable languages, strolled lazily to music so romantic, Kassie yearned to share the experience with someone she loved. Instead, she settled on a twenty-euro glass of pinot grigio to keep her company. If you can’t get a great glass of pinot grigio in Italy. . .? Echoes of Mike eroded her mood.
Kassie loved to people watch. She’d make up stories about them. Given this was Italy, and Venice no less, she imagined most people, couples anyway, were there with their significant others. Except for her. If the other folks there were people watching too, what stories would they make up about her sitting all alone? She sipped her wine politely on the chance someone might be watching.
Gino, the handsome waiter in black tie, placed a second glass of pinot grigio on the small round table with a white tablecloth. “Grazie, Gino, but I didn’t order—”
“No, signorina, signore.” He gestured toward a fellow sitting at a table about thirty feet away. Kassie bowed her head toward him in gratitude he apparently interpreted as an invitation.
“Buono sera, may I join you?”
“Looks like you already did.” She laughed as she absorbed this tall stranger with thick medium-length chestnut brown hair and a slight, yet attractive, afternoon shadow. He wore a smile reminiscent of someone she once knew, a crisp, white oxford shirt with sleeves rolled up displaying a Rolex watch, and gray slacks that hung on him as though he were a model from Milan.
“I’m Christopher Gaines,” he said, offering her his hand.
“Buono sera, Christopher, I’m Kassandra O’Callaghan. Kassie for short.”
“Well, Kassie. I was over there enjoying my night cap and the mystery and magic of Venice, and I noticed this beautiful woman . . . you . . . soaking in the finest sights of Venice. So I decided to take a chance. Hopefully you’re not waiting for someone?” He scanned the area.
“No, I’m very much alone,” she said, sounding embarrassed and encouraging at the same time.
“That can’t be. I aim to change that, if you don’t mind.”
As the sounds of the bands in the square faded away in the background, Chris and Kassie altered their status quo.
First, they shared the basics in fewer than eight minutes. They were bi-coastal; she lived in Boston, he in San Francisco. She’d graduated from Simmons College; he from the University of Illinois. Coincidentally, they had similar careers in marketing. She was an executive at a mid-sized ad agency; he was a senior copywriter at a large agency. Maybe she could solicit his services someday. Italy was a pleasure trip for her, first Venice, then onto Florence and Rome; he was in Venice attending a client conference. Wasn’t he lucky to be there on somebody else’s dime?
Then, opening the door further . . . she was kind of married, no children; he was totally single, no children. Ah-hah, something else in common.
She was born and raised in Massachusetts and had a rough, only child, childhood. Her father died when she was young, and she had an abusive stepfather whom her mother eventually and thankfully divorced. He was born in Illinois, an only child, too; in fact, he was adopted.
“Oh, how do you feel about that?”
“What? Being adopted? Great. A non-issue for me. I’m blessed. My folks gave me a wonderful life, and now they’re semi-retired and enjoying theirs. I must tell them to visit Venice before it sinks.”
Kassie swayed in her chair to Carlos Gardel’s well-recognized tango, “Por una Cabeza.”
“Would you like to dance?”
“Si, si.” She couldn’t remember the last time she and Mike had danced, but she was sure they hadn’t danced in St. Mark’s Square when they were on their honeymoon. He was too self-conscious to dance out in public in front of strangers.
Kassie gave Chris her hand and let him weave through a group of about a dozen couples who had the same impromptu idea until he found a small piece of marble landscape to claim as their private dance floor. She let this Roman-godlike creature, with penetrating Daniel Craig blue eyes, wrap her in his arms. He led her through the intricate tango steps with the skill of someone who knew his way around the dance floor, and she expected the bedroom. Captivated, melting, she didn’t care if anyone in the crowd was watching.
They danced their first dance. When the music stopped, Chris held her close, and they swayed in their special place. Was that apples she smelled?
“It’s getting late,” he said, breaking their embrace. “Can I walk you to your hotel?”
Though surprised by his overture, she accepted it readily. She was staying at the Pensione Guerrato, a historic, boutique hotel near the Rialto Bridge tucked away in a dark, narrow alley. Was that too far to walk? Chris knew the way to Rialto Bridge, if she could guide them from there, they’d be golden. Chris offered his arm; she took it. They strolled aimlessly through the back alleys of Venice accompanied by other tourists also calling it a night, most likely, as most of the stores had closed. They arrived at the hotel faster than she would’ve liked.
But then . . . could he see her tomorrow? Si. Could he kiss her? Si. Si. The first kiss was cordial and polite as though they were teenagers after a first date standing on her front porch. The second? Well, let’s just say Chris lifted her off her feet, pressed her body against the ancient alley wall, and kissed her in a way the nuns who once owned Pensione Guerrato would’ve considered highly indecent. And then he was gone. Dazed, Kassie staggered up the stairs to her room. Oh, what a night.
Promptly at 1400 hours the next day, she arrived on the Rialto Bridge. So many tourists. Would he show or stand her up? Maybe in daylight he wouldn’t think of her as that “beautiful woman” sitting alone in St. Mark’s Square. She’d changed her outfit three times until she was satisfied a spring floral skirt and lavender V-neck knit top were more flattering than the other utilitarian, p
ockets-galore, travel-wear she had packed. The day was sunny and warm again, but she brought a light sweater on the chance her time with him flowed into the evening.
Kassie didn’t have to wait long. She saw him walking toward her, briskly, zigzagging between tourists. He was more casual than the previous night, wearing jeans, a deep blue Izod shirt, sunglasses, and a red Red Sox hat. If he were trying to disguise himself, it wouldn’t work. She could’ve easily picked him out of the crowd. He was a tall drink of water, maybe an inch or two taller than Mike. Besides, she’d noticed the night before he had a unique left-leaning swag to his stride. When she asked about it, he explained he had scoliosis as a child. Years of swimming helped but didn’t totally straighten him out. And then there was that disarming smile.
He must have recognized her too. He walked right up, placed both hands in the middle of her back, and pulled her in tightly. His kiss was hotter than the second one the night before if that was even possible.
“Oh, it is you! Just wanted to be sure.”
“Where did you get that hat?” She giggled and staggered simultaneously.
“At a kiosk near my hotel. Like it?”
“You come all the way to Venice and all you get is a Red Sox hat?”
“Not quite. Sei il mio piu bel ricordo.”
“Which means?” she said, acknowledging her Italian was rusty.
“You are my most beautiful souvenir.”
This time, Kassie kissed him starry-eyed. What was it that Renee Zellweger said to Tom Cruise?
Chris took her hand in his. “Let’s go have fun. You hungry?”
He whisked her away from the overcrowded Rialto Bridge deep into the obscure back alleys of Venice. They cooked up a mission to try as many pubs as possible in two hours, branding it their own “pub and grub crawl.” They tasted whatever wines the proprietors recommended and sampled the variety of cicchetti served on small plates. Kassie recognized some, but not all, of the little appetizers and observed that his palate was more adventuresome than hers. Cucumber and crab meat sandwiches. Calamari. Fried mozzarella. All toothpicked for easy handling. And they feasted on crostini and olives too. She drew the line when it came to uncooked fish and vegetables she could neither recognize nor pronounce.
“It’s a never-ending smorgasbord.”
“Wrong country,” Chris teased as he kissed her between nibbles. . . or did he nibble her between kisses? She wasn’t sure. Didn’t matter. It’s her memory after all. She’d recall it the way she wanted.
“Let’s go to the Doge’s Palace. It’s huge. We can get lost in there,” Chris said.
“Yes, let’s.”
Late afternoon. They hopped on a vaporetto now crowded with Venetians returning home from work and tourists with their maps trying to figure out where they were going. The brisk breeze on the open canal was a welcome departure from the dark, confined pubs and alleyways. The sun dipped between wispy white clouds against a sky as azure as Chris’s eyes. Was it the sun that was falling, or her?
The immense and gilt-drenched Doge’s Palace overwhelmed her, and she was grateful to have Chris to share it with. She clung to his arm memorializing her time with him.
It was evening when they left the palace and were right back where they started the night before at St. Mark’s Square.
“Boy, I’m thirsty. I could drink a whole lagoon,” she said as they sat side-by-side at a café and had a Coca-Cola. “What a wonderful day, Chris. Can’t believe I leave for Florence day after tomorrow. What about you?”
“I have two more nights here.”
He leaned in and kissed the small of her neck. His right hand snuck inconspicuously up her skirt, and he gently caressed her inner thigh. “It has been wonderful, you’re right. Let’s not let it end.”
She didn’t object.
Chris put his arm around her, and they boarded a private gondola. He draped her sweater around her shoulders and pulled her close against his broad chest. They moved through partially lit back canals as the gondolier serenaded them. They passed other boats along the way, and Kassie’s people watching began.
Some boats had small groups of tourists laughing and trying to sing along with their gondolier. What fun! Some had couples who sat opposite one another, enjoying the ride but not the romance. She felt their pain. She supposed that’s how it would be if Mike was there instead of Chris.
When they passed a boat with a couple in an embrace like she and Chris, he’d squeeze her waist tighter and kiss her cheek as if he knew what she was thinking. This wasn’t Mike, and it wasn’t Boston. This was Chris and Venice. She couldn’t ask for more. Could she?
The gondolier glided the boat alongside the dock. Chris lifted her out of the black boat and without a single word between them, they walked hand-in-hand two blocks to his hotel where he gave her more . . . and more . . . and more . . . as the early light of a new day rose over the Grand Canal.
Kassie was on the edge between sleep and wakefulness, cherishing the memory. She felt herself being rolled onto her back. Warm hands slid her thong down her legs. A wet tongue and light kisses explored her thighs. She lifted her torso hungry and begging for more. He obliged. She grabbed the side of the bed and moaned softly. Her hips and his talent moved in unison. “Oh, God.” Her body released. He rested his head on her throbbing mound.
Fully awake now, all Kassie saw was a white sheet with a lump on top of her.
“Oh, it is you!” Chris peeked out from under the sheet.
She reached down with both hands and pulled his long hot body on top of her. He kissed her voraciously.
“French toast,” he exclaimed.
Incessant giggling ensued. So did the sex. And why not? After all, now it was her turn.
11
Excuses, Excuses
Meanwhile, back at Boston Clinic. “Deep breaths, Mr. Ricci. Again. Good. How much do you smoke?”
Mike gave a just-a-little sign with his fingers, being his usual, less-than-cooperative, less-than-honest, cranky self. Who wouldn’t be? No sleep. No food. Hadn’t they poked and prodded him enough in the ER? Now another doctor checked his vitals. Could they really have changed in the five minutes it took to roll him to his private room?
“We’re responsible for you now, Mr. Ricci. We’ll run a few more tests. After that, we’ll order lunch. Maybe filet mignon. How does that sound?”
“Make it snappy. A man could die of starvation here.”
“Not likely, sir, but it’s a good sign you’re hungry. We’ll take care of it. You’ll see.”
An hour later, a technician removed the IV, and like magic, a young man arrived with a tray with his name and room number on it. Special delivery!
“This is food?” Mike whined lifting the plastic cover and staring at shriveled green beans, colorless applesauce, and crackers so dry they’d disintegrated in the package.
“Oh, and look here. Clear chicken broth,” the fellow chided. “Low sodium. Just what the doctor ordered.”
A nurse arrived at the same time and had apparently overheard the conversation. “Mr. Ricci, you’re here to get better. It would do you good to remember this is a hospital, not Davio’s.”
“You can say that again,” Mike griped, not happy with her attitude.
“If you want me to, I will. Or you can try to eat something. We’d like to see if you can keep it down. If you don’t eat, we’ll have to reinsert the IV. Your choice.”
Did he have a choice? Not a good one anyway. So Mike, outnumbered and defeated, grabbed the TV remote, clicked on Andrea Mitchell, and ate his lunch; one bland spoonful after another.
Not half bad. Not half good, either. Is this what I have to look forward to the rest of my life? Good grief.
Soon, Mike surrendered his mood to sleep. At last.
Three hours later, Mike lifted one eyelid. And then the other. The pungent smell of antiseptic was his first clue. The monitor next to his bed was the second. Oh crap, it wasn’t a dream. It was a living nightmare. He was indeed in
the hospital. Un-believable.
A small tray holding a cup with a red flexible straw like they give two-year-olds replaced the lunch tray. He sipped tentatively. Ginger ale. Not his favorite. At least it was something to rinse the rancid taste in his mouth.
What time was it anyway? He searched the small cabinet next to the bed for his things. What things? No watch. No phone. Still wearing the not-so-attractive or functional hospital gown. He turned on the television. Again. Who turned it off? Kind of creepy to imagine strangers coming and going while he slept.
The little red-and-white time tracker in the bottom right corner of MSNBC read 3:50 p.m. That wasn’t much sleep. He felt the urge . . . to pee.
Mike remembered a nurse earlier telling him to call when he needed to use the bathroom . . . for two reasons. In case he was woozy, they didn’t want him to fall, and because they wanted to collect and measure his urine. Oh great. Where’s that buzzer?
Unlike last night, this time Mike peed with no problem, most likely the result of the obscene amount of fluids they’d pumped through his system. He put up a ruckus, but agreed to let the pretty nurse help him to and from the bathroom, all the while clinging to the back of the gown for privacy. He sat on the elevated hospital bed and tried to resettle without embarrassing himself.
The TV showed it was four fifteen. Where was Kassie? Shouldn’t she be there by now? What’s keeping her?
Maybe she’s still sleeping. Or did she go to the game after all? Mike wouldn’t put it past her. When was the last time she gave a damn about him?
Bored, Mike stared out the window at windows in the hospital wing opposite his. What goes on behind those? All kinds of things he imagined. Good news, bad news, surgeries, babies being born. Babies. It’d been an eternity since he’d thought about kids. Why think about them now?
Maybe he shouldn’t have lied to Kassie that morning. It wasn’t a total lie, really, just a postponement of the truth. He’d been in Stage Three for several years, had controlled it, and never saw the need to tell her. Now Dr. Singleton feared he may have moved to Stage Four. Mike feared it, too. They both hoped getting some rest and care in the hospital would provide better test results by Monday. If not, he’d have to come clean and be honest with Kassie. Shit. A Pandora’s box waiting to explode.
What's Not Said Page 7
